dceu_kinkmeme | DCEU Prompt Post #1

Entry tags:

DCEU Prompt Post #1

Welcome to Round One of the DCEU Kink Meme!

Please have a look at the extended rules here.

The important rules in short:

Post anonymously.
Negative comments on other people's prompts (kink-shaming, pairing-bashing etc.) and personal attacks of any kind will not be tolerated.
One prompt per comment. Warnings for common triggers and squicks are encouraged, but not required.
Prompts should follow the format: Character/character, prompt.
Keep prompts to a reasonable length; prompts should not be detailed story outlines.
No prompt spamming.

Please direct any questions to the Ask a mod post. For inspiration: list of kinks .

Prompt, write, draw, comment, and most importantly have fun! Please link to your fills on the fill post.

Here's the discussion post for all your non-prompt/fill needs.

We now have a non-DCEU prompt post for any prompts in other 'verses (comics, animated series, other movies or TV shows etc.).

Newest page | Flat view | Flat view newest page

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh, there is so much great stuff in here. I love Bruce's gentle teasing of Alfred, about how he might want to ~admire her driving~. I love Diana just coming by to talk to Alfred and Alfred doesn't quite catch on why she's doing it. I love that at first they talk about Bruce and Clark and all that (and their observations about them made me grin, considering that I ship Bruce/Clark like mad ;D), but how she then moves on to talk about other things that have absolutely nothing to do with the Justice League. And the bit about the tea, awwwwwwwwwwwwwww. And Alfred's snarkiness at Bruce.

I'm in love with all of this, anon, I am so excited to see this continue. <3

/OP

Clark is back and all, and while he and the others are all working together. There is this tension between Clark and Bruce. Bruce is guilty about how much he misjudged Clark, and Clark is a little bit angry and distrustful of the man who hurt him and savagely beat him. It's when this tension almost causes a big disaster that Bruce finally confronts Clark.

The floodgates open and Clark unleashes all of his pent up anger and hurt, asking Bruce why he and the rest of the world blamed him for things that were out of his control. He rips into Bruce for how cruel and callous he was during their brawl. But even with how angry Clark is, he doesn't so much as lay a finger on Bruce. Instead, Clark just looks like he's doing everything he can not to break down in front of Bruce, which only makes Bruce feel worse.

Not being able to stand it, Bruce apologizes in his gruff, awkward way before he explains how wrong he was, looking ready to break himself. They come together after that, the both of them wanting to feel something other than bad, and using intimacy as a way to clear the air and slowly start trusting each other.

One of the two has very sensitive nipples. You decide who and why, how.
It can be one element in a bigger story. It can vignettes about the topic.

If in one of the vignettes, you decide to go rough, make it from someone else and the other hero will provide comfort.

(not sure what you meant by weird, so i went for vanilla and sweet)

What were they even talking about that he threatened sweetly, with laughably fake menace, to smack her right on the butt. He said butt too, his salt of the Earth roots preventing him from any kind of cursing.

She’s over his lap with a little excited yelp. The first spank instant. Light. Doesn’t hurt more than a pinch, but she yelps again in surprise and says his name like a question, giggling excitedly the way she does when they rush for a quickie.

Lois covers her burning red face with her hands as Clark rubs her ass cheeks and squeezes them apart, plump and toned under her jeans.

He listens to her heartbeat, hears the blood rushing between her legs, to the tender skin of her ass.

This is crazy, she says, and he grins back at her as her hand travels to cover her mouth in embarrassment, as if they’re being watched or graded or simply doing it wrong.

He pulls her jeans down along with her underwear, the fabric scratching her white bare skin, leaving lines.

Clark licks his lips, picking up on her rising heartbeat. “Ready for another?”

Lois looks shyly over her shoulder and perks her ass right up, waiting for the next spank.

She waits and waits, while he squeezes and slides a finger from her asshole to her pussy, teasing her clit and folds, exactly where she liked.

Her heart beat a little harder. Her anticipation filling him with perverse glee.

The next spank is harder. Not by much. Her sensitive skin turns redder, the lines smoothing out to the shape of Clark’s hand.

Lois closes her hands on a couch pillow and bites her lip. The slight, hot pain reverberates through her body and makes her ache for a harder spank. Again, she looks to him, and he gently combs her hair behind her ears.

She couldn’t believe she was about to ask, but he was already caressing the bare cheek, cooler than the other.

“Harder this time.”

forgot to put this in the heading. the ficlet is in the commenet above this one. my bad!

Rather than being amicable and friendly, Clark and Lois' break-up is messy and painful and leaves them both in pretty bad shape. Clark is heartbroken and angry and miserable and convinced that he'll never fall in love and have a serious relationship again.

But now that he's not in a relationship anymore, all that angry sexual tension that has been simmering between him and Bruce from the start finally boils over. So they start fucking, because clearly violent, kinky, borderline hate sex with someone you don't really get along with is the best way to deal with a broken heart. Except they obviously do develop feelings for each other over time. Would love to see both the initial angry sex full of repressed sad feelings, and how that slowly develops into something else.

Second this so much!

Warnings for: grieving; wordiness; Greek metaphors; trying to capture a several millennia-old warrior’s interiority; seriously, do you like the Illiad and the Aeneid? I crib from them like it’s going out of style; porn with plot and feels; unrequited Bruce/Clark feels sprinkled in per nonny's request.

Because this is my weird AU of events, I'm going to pretend that identity porn could still happen: neither Bruce nor Diana knows Superman's identity, and Clark didn't know Batman's. (For all the good it will do him. Godspeed, little doodle.)

-------------

The hero's aim was true. The kryptonite spear sunk into the abomination's chest.

It roared and reared back, scrabbing weakly to break the kryptonian's death-hold. The plan, however, held: the gas from Batman's launcher weakened it, Diana's lasso restrained it, the spear pierced it. Red energy spewed from the creature's maw.

The ground around them groaned, and the kryptonian redoubled his intense grip. Chance and skill had given them this opportunity to kill the unkillable creature. The distance sounds of the city fell into a mute hush, as if it waited to see whom would gore the other. Diana thought of Aeneas and Turnus, shields locked in bloody strife by the banks of the Tiber, when Zeus himself had held the scales of battle to see whom effort doomed and with whose weight death sank down.

Something prickled at the back of her neck.

(It's killing him too, she thought faintly.)

But the thought slid from her mind before she could attach any meaning to it. Their current plan was a patchwork of anticipation and split-second timing on the battlefield. For her to call out to the kryptonian to drop the spear would be madness; they had no clear command, no accord between them but the need to destroy the creature. Locked into a tableau of struggle that would have made the muralists on Paradise Island faintly giddy at the play of light and form, the kryptonian held on to the spear.

Pride swelled in Diana's heart. She had killed threats from other worlds before; she and her sisters had slain beasts from Almerac; she had subdued Osira, who had thought to control the minds of this planet; this... plaything of man would be no different--it had been so long since she had fought by heroes that rivaled the gods--

And then the unthinkable. The unbreakable lasso--the lasso that Hephaestus forged strong enough to contain the power of Ares himself--wrenched from her hands.

She fell to her knees as she grabbed for the end. Another vicious yank, and it moved entirely beyond her reach. Her body faltered, and she collapsed into the detritus of the destroyed city block.

The monster shook free.

(She didn't see the arm-spikes scythe into weakened flesh. She didn't see, she didn't see...)

Green energy battered the air. She could feel the raw, twisting wrong as the kryptonite combined with the creature's natural power. Green lightning crackled across her skin.

In a flash of sulphurous rage, alien knowledge from a dead world sunk into her skin. Diana gritted her teeth, and hunkered under the shelter of her bracelets. She knew even the slightest give now, and she could be lost to an invading presence--

Scenes played out in her mind in disjointed skips. A creature gestated at the height of an empire's expansion, its mission attuned across time and space: protect life. The right kind of life. Destroy the impurity that taints civilization. A mission that she could accept. Man's World was so endlessly corrupt. Hadn't she seen that in the century of war that she had beheld? Hadn't that been why she stepped away from Man's World, became nothing more than a kyrios to an empty household? Wouldn't a mission, a purpose fill another century with something other than loneliness? The cleansing would be undeniably hers, hers, hers...

The temptation to yield to the invading desire pierced her like another lightning clap, as the emptiness of the years wandering Man's World cascaded on her like a choking deluge.

(The lasso, she thought dimly...)

She sought blindly for the lasso, scrabbling through the dirt, a prayer to her mother, Hestia, any god who would listen. Her fingers met the silky texture of the rope in the sliver of space between her and a sickening drop, and she wrapped her hand around it tightly, the touch of its truth a surety that spread deep into her bones, and shone through her body. The green energy screamed as it was drowned in incandescent light.

The alien desire receded from her mind like the foam on a breaking wave.

She was Diana of Themiscyra, the Truth-Bringer. She who stands, until it breaks her.

She caught the lasso in her hand and stood as the last energy wave dissipated in the dark sky. Clouds kicked up from the smoldering ruin, and she saw movement on the edge of her vision. Her allies emerging from their own shelters. The Dark Knight, and...

It was done. The monster was dead.

But so was Kal-El of Krypton.

* (W) *

The Dark Knight of Gotham eased the body into her arms. Ash settled on his hair like a halo. She laid him down on the uneven ground as gently as she could--but even her body had limits, and the kryptonian’s superdense body strained her endurance. If he landed heavily, no one reproached her for it.

Bruce leaned over, and… his fingers curled away from Kal-El’s hair, as though he’d meant to comb his fingers through it, but couldn’t.

Lois bent over the body, weeping. Diana turned away from that raw expression of grief.

It would never be long enough to forget the sharp echo that rose in Diana’s chest.

* (W) *

Diana had words for the dead, but they were not hers to say. Kal-El was not her brother-in-arms; he was not even of this world. She had not known if he had any other people than Lois, and could not mourn him as she surely did now, miles away from this public spectacle.

She lingered at the edge of the military procession through Metropolis, not particularly impressed by the hero’s funeral that they now bestowed on the Superman, as they polished up his hagiography, when fresh-turned soil had not yet been laid on his casket.

As the procession passed her, she whispered a prayer to the gods of the underworld (that those who remained, and who had replaced the old gods who had faded) to carry his soul lightly, and to embrace him as he had not been embraced in this life.

The honor guard congested the road for ten minutes; men and women of all branches of military and civil authority marching together.

A stifled sob at her elbow caught Diana’s attention, and she politely turned away from the woman beside her (she had been taught that acknowledging another’s pain in this century had cultural nuance that she did not fully understand). The feeling of grief pressed on her. And then--Diana caught a face in the press of people across the promenade. Unlike the expressions on other mourners’ faces, it was carefully neutral, mouth drawn tense. The lines of his face were hard as stone; statues on Themyscira had more animation than his blank indifference. Someone jostled her side, and gave her a quick “hey--sorry--need to tweet this--” and the face disappeared, camouflaged in the crowd.

That was the last she saw of Bruce Wayne for half a year.

* (W) *

Diana woke up in the hotel with her skin aching, a trail of hair prickling down her arms in the cool night air. Her heart raced, expecting a blow to fall any minute, but dimly aware that the terror that chased her from her dreams was just that--a phantasm.

The sounds of shields and ringing bronze died away slowly as she shook off the sleep-image of Doomsday. It had been days since she had last dreamed of the Last Stand of Krypton.

(She named it that when she thought about writing about it to her sisters-in-arms.)

Invariably, the nightmare returned: they collided like bulls, she lost the grip on her lasso, and Kal died beneath Doomsday’s monstrous hands.

The simplicity of her grief was maddening. She had let down Man’s World, just when she had stepped up to embrace it. Her failure tasted like so much bitter gall.

(A flashburn image of Bruce’s hand, curling back from Kal’s hair.)

A whisper of fabric adjusting itself.

With a start, Diana realized that she was not alone. Cursing herself for abandoning the habit of sleeping in her bracelets, she peered into the darkness of her room. The layout had become familiar to her; she had stayed in a single suite since her hasty return to Metropolis. She didn’t want to make it difficult to be tracked down. If someone wanted to track her down...

A man sat in the chair across the room; the one cloaked in shadow of the wall between the windows and the french doors. A long swath of moonlight illuminated the bed and the space her interloper would have to cross to attack her, if violence was his intent. But try as she might, she could not see her interloper.

Diana assessed her options. Her bracelets in the armoire. The shield under the bed. The lasso, coiled and draped over the bedpost, closest to hand. Unarmed attack from the foot of the bed. She liked the odds of the lasso best, and she bent towards it.

“Don’t.” The voice choked out the word, unrecognizable.

Her hand stilled. Her senses told her the figure was mortal; it did not crackle with the energy of one touched by Olympus.

But then again, neither did Kal-El.

Was this figure friend or foe?

Her skin had natural resistance to most of Man’s weapons; unless she was very, very unlucky, even without bracelets, lasso, or shield, she was protected. She could try diplomacy; nothing would be lost by it if it were a god, or demiurge in disguise.

Her chin rose, and she called out in as warm English as she could manage while her thoughts raced through in her mother tongue:

“If you would kindly return in the morning, I would be happy to speak to you then.”

(She had almost said ‘have an audience with you,’ as though she were still the welcomed daughter of Hippolyta.)

A dark chuckle echoed through the room. “I’ll confess; I’m not much of a morning person.”

That voice. She knew that voice. Had it crept into the hotel from her dreams?

“...Bruce?” she said, oddly hesitant.

For six months, she had attended Gotham and Metropolis fund-raisers, charity soirees, Wayne Enterprises press conferences... no Bruce Wayne, not a glimpse of his designer suits, or his empty smile. It had proven impossible to track him back to his den. And yet the images of him (a smile as he leaned into her at the fundraiser, his hand curling away, a blank face in the crowd) rolled through her sleep, night after night.

A sharp intake of air answered her. He didn’t move from the shadow.

Diana wondered again: friend or foe? He had been an ally on the battlefield… what was he now?

It seemed that he had the same wary question, as the next words that emerged from the shadows were: "What do I call you?”

Names.

They had never even been formally introduced.

“Warrior? Queen? Goddess?” Bruce continued, after a pause. Diana shot him (or the probable direction of him) a withering glare at his cavalier tone. She knew the glibness to be fake, and let that show in her disapproval.

“I’m joking.”

There was an awkward clearing of a throat. If she could see him--would he glance down at his hands, suitably abashed? She’d like to imagine so.

“Sorry,” he said at last. He had the decency to sound abashed, at least.

“Call me Diana,” she said crisply. “None of my honorifics have meaning to this world.”

"What are you?"

“A warrior, a protector of Earth.

“Human.”

(In the ways that counted.)

She paused, because she wanted it too much not to say it: “Come out of the shadow, Bruce. I won’t speak to phantoms.”

The shadows relinquished Bruce grudgingly. Suddenly he was standing in the room, bathed in the moonlight. The light painted his cheekbones in a pale blue. He wore a four thousand dollar suit; so he came as Bruce Wayne, not Gotham’s protector, even though Diana only had a hazy understanding how the two were different

(except that she had seen genuine emotion on the Batman’s face; but Bruce Wayne’s expression was as shuttered as any stoic).

“Good,” she said, and spread her arm to invite him to sit.

Bruce’s face remained carefully blank, but his body spoke volumes. His hesitation to sit on the foot of her bed amused her, and she smiled as a thick, honey-like sensation tickled her memory.

Yes. Happier days; boys and their chivalry. Yes. She remembered this.

“Will I get more than the cliffnotes version?” Bruce prompted, when she said nothing else.

“Yes.”

“You don’t trust me,” he said, brows pulled together in thought.

“You don’t trust me!” Because it was true; she had made it quite obvious in the past six months that she had been looking for Bruce. If he had cared to look (and he probably did), he would have known…he would have come earlier... clearly, he had not wanted to be found until it suited his own comfort.

Diana immediately dismissed that thought as unworthy of her; despite what she wanted--

(Wanted? What did she want? Her desires remained frustratingly opaque to her.)

--she didn’t know Bruce’s truth. And couldn’t judge him even if she found it distasteful. He was here now.

“I suggest a mutual exchange of trust...Not tonight,” Bruce clarified. “I’ll need to prepare.”

An eyebrow flew up; she couldn’t help it. On Themyscira, a mutual exchange of trust meant physical intimacy. The incredulity must have showed on her face, because in the next moment, Bruce muttered a peevish: “what?”

“I am sorry, Bruce. There is a colloquial phrase. When you translate it from English to what you’d call Ancient Ionic Greek. An exchange of trust is… sex.”

The utter blankness returns to Bruce’s face, slowly, like blinds being drawn.

“Sex,” he repeated, and the color seemed to drain from his face.

“Coitus,” she said, because she wondered--how pale, exactly, could the Prince of Gotham become? “Non-penetrative sex between both partners, shared within a bond of--”

“Yes, good--” Bruce loosened his collar with his finger. “I mean, no, that’s not what I’m proposing. I. Wanted to show you something. Somewhere. A gathering place.--Just how old are you, exactly?” He finished hotly.

“What measure of time would have meaning for you?”

“You’re joking,”

She didn’t disagree with him, and Bruce relaxed a fraction taking silence for truth. An easiness suffused his body, and he tipped his head back into the light, as if it were a physical touch that ran across his throat.

As she watched Bruce become a person at the edge of the bed--relaxing the stranglehold of control he’d had over his body, Diana found clarity within her desire.

She wanted something very much from this man; she wanted to see the terrifying blankness eased from his face. And when that desire made itself known, a cascade swept her, as the answer to one question opened a hundred tiny doors. She wanted to bury the afterimages of grief that played in her dreams. She wanted to mourn their loss, her and Bruce, together, and be less broken for it. She wanted to enter the fray again with comrades at her side, to fight, and to not be alone when she clenched her teeth in a victory cry.

The vaguest impression of a plan began to coalesce in her mind.

“I will engage in your ritual of exchanging trust, for a promise.”

Bruce gritted his teeth.

“Promise that if I propose a ritual… that you will consider participation as well?”

This in itself was a test; and Diana saw the exact moment that trust won out over suspicion.

“Don’t make me regret it,” he said, in a way that meant yes.

“Then yes.”

“Good. I’ll contact you when it’s ready.”

Bruce didn’t move from the foot of the bed. He still looked relaxed, even if the previous ease wasn’t entirely there; even if his eyes darted over to Diana several times, only to slide off her body to the wall behind her, or to the bedposts, to the lasso that hung within arm’s reach.

Diana pulled her legs up underneath her in what she knew would be an oddly vulnerable position for even a warrior of her merit. But she did not feel like a warrior right now; she was just Diana.

Her chin found her shoulder, and she looked behind her at the man who unconsciously angled his body towards the shadow, as though he could return to them just by the force of wishing it.

“In the spirit of sharing,” she began, then stopped. Small talk didn’t seem fitting. Neither did her question--Man's World no longer believed in visions, or the power of revealed wisdom.

Bruce’s gaze sharpened on her. His gaze had weight and intent that felt like Teucer before he nocked an arrow behind Ajax’s shield.

“I don't bite, Diana,” Bruce said softly.

His words found their target, and her heart moved oddly in her chest.

“What did you see on the battlefield before Doomsday died?”

“Purity. Genocide. Power. Control. Nothing I haven't turned my back on before,” he said at last, with a particularly vicious upturn of his mouth that could not--by any stretch of the imagination, in Diana’s experience with the many cultures of Man’s World--be considered a smile. “What did you see?”

“That we must stand against injustice until it breaks us,” she said directly. “We must not be unprepared again.”

“Men are still good,” Bruce whispered, wonderingly.

“Men are still good,” Diana agreed. “We must do this together. The price of doing this alone is…” The remembered weight of consequence filled her, as she laid it--him--silently on that rubble-strewn battlefield, “is too great.”

“I was thinking something along those lines myself, Princess.” The solemn expression on his face promised that he had been doing something about that these past six months.

“What, don’t like Princess?” Cheekily.

“It is...not inaccurate,” she said finally.

The afterimage of his smile burned in her mind.

Bruce Wayne slipped out of the room via the balcony (was he scaling buildings in a four thousand dollar suit? Boys, she thought in fond disbelief.)

The memory of that small smile remained. She found it achingly beautiful.

Wow, this is beautifully written, anon. I really love the tentativeness of this, how hard it is for her to read him, how uncertain she is of what she wants (and her realisation that what she wants is to see that blankness gone from his face). I also love all those descriptions of Bruce being drawn to the shadows, and especially this bit here is perfect:

The shadows relinquished Bruce grudgingly. Suddenly he was standing in the room, bathed in the moonlight. The light painted his cheekbones in a pale blue. He wore a four thousand dollar suit; so he came as Bruce Wayne, not Gotham’s protector, even though Diana only had a hazy understanding how the two were different

(except that she had seen genuine emotion on the Batman’s face; but Bruce Wayne’s expression was as shuttered as any stoic).

(Also, I'll admit that as someone who mostly ships Bruce/Clark, that little detail of Bruce almost touching Clark's hair broke my heart. But I am really looking forward to how this continues. Great work so far.)

Jfc, this is so hot. I love Bruce's curiosity and how fascinated he is with Clark. :DDD And I need more of Bruce talking dirty to Clark, all those obscenities, hehe.

Oooooooooh, that shower scene is beautiful. I love how enanamoured Clark is with Bruce and just how ... into him. Unf. And Bruce's reluctance to kiss him is heartbreakingly beautiful.

And then the next scene, oh my god! I love it. I love Alfred who's mad at Bruce because he thinks he's just messing around with Clark. That is so perfectly Alfred. Aaaaaaaaah, and then this here: Then comes Alfred's incredulous tut. "Oh, Bruce," he says, with razor-edged affection. "You stupid, stupid man." I love your Alfred. And someone really needed to say "Oh, Bruce". ;)

I am laughing so hard at Bruce turning on the blender the moment Clark tries to speak. That's hilariously in character. And their whole conversation is so great I could quote all of it back at you. <3 And then EEEEEEEEEEEEEH THE TIE AND THE KISS AND MY HEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAART. And then that last exchange at the end is the best thing ever. I love you, anon. <333333

It was probably plan F or so, and repeatedly vetoed by Alfred, ahaha. I'm sure he's not all that mollified, Bruce being Bruce.

Thank you anon <33 *gently pets your heart*

Oh man, love non-confessions are my kryptonite, so to speak. ;D I couldn't not. I HAVE NO RESTRAINT.

Bruce has a lot of feelings. He's not good at feelings, but he's trying, ok. :) THANK YOU ANON ILU

I haven't read a lot of superbat because I don't like to absorb too much fanon while I'm writing stuff myself (though obvs I've cribbed a bit here and there re: Clark's boners hahaha) but yeah, Bruce Distancing Himself is a common beat as far as I've seen, and I wanted to play with that a little bit via Clark being a bit more assertive about things :D

And for all the Stoic Controlled Grim Bat in canon... there is a substantive amount of telling and not showing going on imo. Dude's all over the place. I know it's just different writers pinging him off in their own directions, but it really makes me laugh sometimes.

Aww, thanks, anon! Like the nonnie below said, I'll post it up once it's done--I need to tie up the bank bust, Clark's returning powers, a trip to see Martha and also what Clark's gonna do with himself next, so! A decent chunk of stuff to go still :D

♥

*gasp* has my secret identity been compromised? Maybe the glasses weren't enough...

Bruce just has messed up intimacy stuff going on, don't mind him. I kind of regret sticking entirely to Clark's PoV sometimes, ha. :P

I love Alfred so much, he is an absolute delight. All sass and salt, no nonsense.

ILU too nonny! All of you are the best nonnies ok <3333

I accidentally some more porn ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Bruce is due at Wayne Enterprises this morning; apparently it takes considerable time and effort to offset his own deliberate stumbles and arrogant showboating. One more ball in his elaborate juggling routine, steps to keep the company well-oiled and to make sure his staff have some degree of respect for him, despite being a one-man PR catastrophe.

When Clark suggests that he may be his own worst enemy, Bruce's only response is a caustic look.

So Clark sits on the bed with one leg folded under him and watches Bruce pull the persona together--vest, cufflinks, jacket, smirk. It's a subtle but striking transformation, just the slightest shift in his posture, in the superficial openness of his face. All Clark can think about is dismantling it again, piece by piece.

He only realizes how quiet he's been when Bruce asks, "what's eating you?"

"Nothing," Clark says, with a shrug. He watches Bruce fix his hair and then tug his shirtcuffs down over his wrists, and changes his mind about brushing it off. "You're good at hiding."

Bruce tilts his chin at Clark, invitation for him to elaborate.

"When did you, uh--" Clark says. It isn't important; he's just curious--that, and thinking about it stirs a particular thrill that he finds himself hungry for. "How long?"

Bruce steps up to him, leans one hand on the bed, the other on the crook of Clark's knee. From the look of him, Clark expects a boorish Wayne response, but Bruce just ducks in, drops a kiss on the bridge of Clark's nose and says, "I'll see you later."

*

It's a beautiful day, the sun burning off the worst of Gotham's cloudbanks and letting the summer heat gather in the air. Clark relaxes out on the deck in one of the slowly disintegrating loungers and watches the remaining white shreds of cloud get teased out by the breeze.

It's too warm for flannel and jeans, so he's taken it upon himself to be borderline invasive and dug a pair of shorts and an undershirt from Bruce's wardrobe. Both black, with amusing predictability. Clark finds he's mildly disappointed that they only smell of detergent, but when he closes his eyes and lets the last day or so wash over him, he thinks maybe that's a small mercy.

It's kind of overwhelming enough even with the hazy quality the night has taken on, especially where it's shot through with bolts of visceral, tactile memory. Clark has to stop and hold his breath whenever he thinks about it.

(It doesn't escape him that the man who once used everything in his arsenal to drive him to his knees could now do so with a single glance, a soft word.)

He groans quietly and turns onto his front, lets the sun kiss his spine. He must have drifted into sleep--he didn't get that much rest, after all--because he wakes to a shadow cast over him and the clink of ice against a glass.

"May I interest you in some iced tea, Master Clark?"

Clark squints up at Alfred's silhouette. "Mm?"

"It's passion fruit," Alfred says, arch. He sets the glass down next to the lounger.

"Thanks," Clark says. He feels his face heat, a sharp prickle under the warmth he has absorbed from the sun. He can't quite bring himself to make eye contact. He sits himself up, feet on the deck, and scrubs one hand through his hair. "Um--"

Alfred tugs the leg of his pants and sits himself on the adjacent lounger. He leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. "It seems that Master Bruce is quite taken with you," he says. There's no judgment there, just Alfred's usual brand of shrewd understatement. He watches Clark, sharp behind the horn-rimmed glasses.

Clark is conscious that Alfred has been the one looking out for Bruce all these years. It'd be naive to think it's as straightforward as a father-son kind of relationship, even a thorny one, but it suddenly makes him nervous--and a little annoyed at himself, that he wants Alfred's approval in this.

(And he remembers, all of a sudden, that ma has invited him and Bruce back home, and he feels that pressure twofold.)

"Yeah, uh." He rubs at the back of his neck, smiles deprecatingly. "I got that impression."

"And full force, no doubt," Alfred says, infinitely dry. "I trust you are prepared for his inevitable nonsense."

"I've managed so far," Clark says, and yeah, he has, mostly--but he's sure that's not what Alfred is talking about.

Alfred just offers him an opaque smile and stands, touches Clark's arm. "You're a good influence on him, Clark. Eventually, he will try to make you believe otherwise. Don't let him."

"This is all very ominous." Clark won't let himself wonder how many people Alfred might have given this speech to.

"That is his middle name," Alfred says, then adds, with mannered disdain, "among other things."

*

Clark's sunsoaked and drowsy, feels like he could almost get fat from it, the way it sinks into his bones and brims inside him. It feels like all the aches and bruises have lifted from his skin. He's shed the undershirt and left it in a clinging damp pile on the deck, next to the glass full of half-melted ice cubes.

He can track the gradual passage of the sun even with his eyes closed, gauged by the angle and intensity of its rays on his bare back. It's just him, the wide arc of the sky, the gentle lap of the lake beneath the deck--and someone else's breathing. He keeps his eyes closed, keeps his smile where it is.

There's a liquid noise, the ring of the glass, and Clark catches on a second before it happens.

Despite that, he can't help the involuntary jerk when the sliver of ice alights between his shoulderblades, body snapping into rigidity as it slides into the small of his back. Clark gasps and twists onto his side, water trickling off him, already warming.

"You look like you've had a busy day." Bruce crouches next to the lounger, rests his forearm along its edge. His expression is jejune, caddish, and Clark doesn't trust it one bit.

"You're being that guy," he tells Bruce. "Don't be that guy."

Bruce raises his eyebrows, nothing but bland curiosity. "And which guy is that?"

Clark feels a stab of frustration. Bruce's mask is paper-thin; it shouldn't work anywhere near as well as it does, especially not now, but it's somehow hard to get past it. He is extremely good at hiding. "The first time I met you--" Clark says, by way of explanation, trying to lift the edges.

"Mm, yes," Bruce says, deadpan. "Our eyes met across a crowded room."

Clark snorts and allows him a tolerant smile, then decides to play along. He affects the slightly bored tone of someone who's told the same story a hundred times. "It was a bright, warm evening and the stars were aligned just so. I hated you on sight. You couldn't stop checking me out--"

"You hated me? Really? I didn't--I did not get that vibe from you." And there's the quick turn of his mouth, engineered to be completely infuriating. "All those friendly aspersions you were casting my way..."

"You were an asshole." Clark's smile becomes a grin. "And you persisted--"

"Watch your language, Kansas."

"--persisted in being an asshole right up to the line. I've got to say, I admire your dedication to the role."

And just like that, Wayne's swagger evaporates and it's just Bruce knelt next to him, getting dirt on his expensive slacks. He takes a deep breath, not quite a sigh. "I don't have to try very hard," he says, the slick marble of his public voice crushed back into its natural gravel.

Clark catches a finger in the V of his jacket. "I think you have a kind heart."

"I think you feel that way about every person you meet, Clark."

Clark half shrugs. It's not too far from the truth--he believes there's some good in everyone, no matter how deeply buried--but that doesn't mean Bruce is somehow exempt, or that Clark's love is somehow devalued just because it's vast. He's about to try explain that when Bruce slips his thumb into the waistband of his shorts, snaps the elastic against Clark's back.

"Are these mine?" he says, and Clark's throat tightens at the tone of his voice, the delicate break of need in it.

Clark nods, mouth dry.

"Inside," Bruce says, roughly. "Now."

*

Bruce drags him through to the bedroom, his hand on Clark's wrist and Clark almost tripping over his own feet to keep up. Alfred's long-suffering 'good grief' is cut short as Bruce kicks the door closed behind them.

He presses Clark up against one of the huge windows; Clark's skin squeals against it, leaves a sweaty smear on the glass. His skull makes a hollow sound when he tips his head back a bit too hard. Bruce is on his knees, mouthing at Clark through the sleek synthetic fabric of the shorts, one hand working its way up the leg, hitching it up Clark's thigh. He's a little desperate with it, like maybe he's been thinking about it all day. Thinking about Clark.

"Did you," Clark says, "did you--ah," and then whatever coy smalltalk he's trying to initiate is sent skittering out of his head when Bruce yanks down the waistband and draws Clark into his mouth. He jerks helplessly but Bruce holds him fast, a palm pushing against his hip as he sucks tight around him. The other slides further up the inside of his thigh, still under the shorts, and squeezes at the base of Clark's dick.

"Ah, jeez," Clark breathes, pulse thrumming in his ears. He feels like he's glowing, today has been nothing but decadent warmth, and now--and now Bruce is doing something outrageous with his tongue, sending searing rills of heat through his veins. Clark pets his hair, a clumsy warning. "Bruce."

Bruce pulls back, slides Clark out of his mouth in an impressively lewd maneuver, leaves the head of Clark's dick resting on his lower lip. He's not smirking, there's no trace of the playboy here, just Bruce's grave intensity and a confident, unashamed hedonism that is not part of any act. He stares up at Clark, eyes glittering, and waits.

Clark endures that look for a the span of two breaths and five heartbeats and then comes, spills into Bruce's mouth, over his lips. It's so brashly pornographic he can barely stand to watch it happen, especially when it drips onto Bruce's shirt collar.

Bruce just tilts his head back and swallows, darts his tongue into the corner of his mouth and then across his lower lip. He pulls an exaggeratedly disgusted face, and Clark laughs, hauls him up onto his feet--it's easy, like he doesn't weigh anything, like Clark's the strongest man in the world--and kisses him, kisses the taste of himself, kisses the smile that curves against his lips.

"Are you busy?" he says, and hooks two fingers into the knot of Bruce's tie, "because I think I owe you a few favors."

*

The sun is setting, its retreat tearing the sky open into long red gashes, pouring into the lake and turning the water into stirred blood. Bruce's bedroom is doused in it; Bruce himself is cast in shadow where Clark stands between him and the window. He's unfastened Bruce's tie and placed it neatly on the dresser, eased his jacket from his shoulders, and is slowly slipping the buttons of his shirt.

Very slowly.

"I said I wasn't busy right now," Bruce says, and the fact that he sounds impatient instead of seductive is somehow more appealing. "But I don't actually have all week."

Clark just smiles sunnily and returns to his exploration. Every new button opens Bruce's shirt up wider, revealing more scars--each of which needs to be mapped, first with fingers then with lips, and in the case of the gnarled mess on his shoulder, with the graze of Clark's teeth. It's testament to Bruce's resilience that he's still standing upright, considering the noises he made at that.

Bruce's fingers brush Clark's shoulders, down his arms. "Come on," he says as Clark unfastens the last button. "Clark."

"Pushy," Clark says, mouth pressed to the sliver of shiny skin above Bruce's navel. He's not really sure what his plan is here, only that he wants to take all of Bruce's pieces and lay them out in plain view: not just the cotton and silk and gabardine, but the bone and muscle and pale, pale scars; his grit and his grief and his abiding passion, Gotham in his blood like a curse. He wants to know Bruce like he knows himself.

(He wonders if Bruce feels the same about him, whether he's parsing Clark Kent out into a schematic diagram, or into a battle plan--or whether he find everything he needs worn plain on Clark's sleeve.)

"You're killing me here," Bruce says, as Clark slips the shirt from him, turns him around so he can work his way up Bruce's back, mouth at the abrasions and welts and the stormclouds of bruising. Turnabout is fair play, he wants to say, but for all the forgiveness he has, he can't quite joke about that yet.

Clark presses his lips to the scattershot puckers of smooth skin at the base of his neck, and slides his palm across the front of his slacks. Bruce clenches his teeth and rocks his hips forward, and Clark takes his hand away long enough to unfasten his belt, push the fabric away and draw him down onto the bed.

Bruce's head falls back as Clark tugs at his underwear, bares his neck so that Clark can spread his hand across the curve of his throat and feel the vibration of his voice, please please please, the gasp when Clark tightens his hand around him, when he presses the flat of his tongue over Bruce's nipple, when he bites at the juncture of his shoulder. He comes quickly enough that it would be embarrassing if it wasn't so gorgeous--Bruce makes a sudden, startled sound, his body flexing into Clark's hand, lost in the tight shudder of his thighs and abdomen.

He breathes, and Clark breathes with him, and Bruce hooks an arm across his shoulders, pulls him down on top of him.

*

AAaah, anon, this is GORGEOUS. What a great atmosphere. I love how inviolable Diana is and how she's halfway to getting a handle on Bruce already. This is gonna be so gooood. /camps out in thread

Aww, this is really cute, anon. They think they're being so naughty. :D

Lex has hopelessly unreciprocated sexual attraction towards Mercy; she's gorgeous, after all, and she's probably the only woman he is (or, possibly, has ever been) close to. Lex does something pathetic (eg. jerking off to her and she catches him, cumming in his pants when something mildly sexy happens, begging her to let him touch her, etc.) while an apathetic Mercy rolls her eyes.

Clark is back and he likes to hang out in the Bat Cave for some reason. Bruce puts up the front of being gruff and annoyed, while secretly loving Clark's company. One night Bruce comes down from the main house and is stunned to see Clark with a multitude of bats clinging to him and climbing on him, all looking perfectly content.

It's as he watches Clark fly up and gently place the bats back on the cave walls that Bruce has a major epiphany. He is totally gone for the Kryptonian.

Clark and Bruce are together after clearing the air and working hard to build a relationship. One nigh they are getting hot and heavy when Clark asks Bruce if they can try something unique. Intrigued, Bruce agrees and they go outside, where Clark proceeds to show Bruce his strength, and also his flying skills as they make love in the air with the lake below them.

It is easily the best and most thrilling thing either of them have ever experienced.

Nonny, thank you for this accidental porn. It is my favorite kind of accidental porn, and this fill just keeps getting better and better.

I'll admit that as sexy as the Bruce/Clark fun is, what really gets me are the little bits of Alfred that you've injected into this section (and in others!). I love how he feels like a part of Bruce's world and Bruce's life that kind of fades in and out of Clark's focus.

Alfred's 'good grief' basically made my day. Long-suffering Alfred. If there was ever a more apt description of him, I don't think I've read it...

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 42 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

Re: FILL: Alfred/Diana, friendship + getting together (2/?)

Bruce/Clark: Clark Angry at Bruce, Leading to Passion

Bruce/Clark, Nipple play

Re: Clark/Lois, spanking

Re FILL: Clark/Lois, spanking

Bruce/Clark, post Clark/Lois break-up

Re: Bruce/Clark, post Clark/Lois break-up

FILL: Votive Garments (1/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging

FILL: Votive Garments (2/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging

Re: FILL: Votive Garments (2/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (13/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (14/probably 18ish)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (14/probably 18ish)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (14/probably 18ish)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (14/probably 18ish)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (14/probably 18ish)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (14/probably 18ish)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (14/probably 18ish)

Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (15/18?)

Re: FILL: Votive Garments (2/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging

Re: Clark/Lois, spanking

Lex/Mercy, Lex is pathetic

Bruce/Clark: Th Bats in the Bat cave love Clark

Bruce/Clark: Making Love Mid-Air

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (15/18?)